


Holiday Cheer

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Candles, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Daisy being a bad influence, Daisy being a good influence, Declarations Of Love, Dinner, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, F/M, First Kiss, Grumpy Cat Coulson, Humor, Jewish Coulson, Reconciliation, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by actual Christmas candle shopping.  Daisy convinces Coulson to create some forced holiday cheer.  It works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday Cheer

“The all-important holiday scent collection,” she says, stopping in front of the floor-to-ceiling display.

He shrugs, processing, catching a few names on the packaging.  Vague and pleasant-sounding, like “Winter Wonderland” and “Holiday Cheer.”

“What does ‘Holiday Cheer’ smell like?” he asks sarcastically.

“I don’t know,” she says, reaching for the candy cane-colored label. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

She opens the top and holds it out to him first.

He bends forward a little, not quite letting his nose touch the container, shifting the shopping bags in his hand.

“Well?” she asks.

“They should rename it ‘Holiday Hell’,” he proclaims. “Like my great-aunt Liz burning a fruit cake.”

She laughs and smells it, yanks it away from her face.

“Ugh.  Out of the question.”

Placing it back on the shelf, she looks over the names up close.

“Candles ruin things,” Coulson tells her.  “Especially if you’re serving food.”

“This is not for dinner,” she throws back to him.  “It’s to liven up the atmosphere in the common areas. Who doesn’t like a candle?”

“I like candles just fine,” he huffs, setting the bag down. “Just not smelly ones.”

She glances back at him for a moment, feels a bit bad he has to carry things all by himself.  But then she’s the one who hurt herself keeping the portal open for him.

“Besides,” she adds. “You volunteered to handle the food, and I’m creating the ambiance.”

“Do they have one called ‘Awkward Reconciliations’,” he says quietly, then looks around the shop.  “Or, ‘Sorry, But You’re Stuck Here For HYDRA Reasons?’”

“Let me see,” she says, opening a canister. “This one smells like bitterness, some expensive French cheese I can’t pronounce, a hint of really tasteful wool, and…rosemary.  Yes, there’s definitely rosemary in everything.  Even though no one likes rosemary in everything.”

He rolls his eyes.  “It’s a subtle flavor.”

“If you like rosemary,” she mutters.

She turns it towards him and the outside has a garish snowman, but she’s hiding the name on the label with her fingers.

“Oh, look. It’s called ‘Phil Coulson’.”

“Époisses,” he pronounces in perfect French. “And you are going to, literally, eat your words.”

“While you’re wearing something tasteful and wool, I’d guess.”

He inserts his tongue into his cheek and tilts his head at her.

“It’s possible.”

“I just want a candle that smells like what Christmas should feel like,” she tells him, exasperated.  “Are you going to help, or-“

“So you like Christmas now?”

“No,” she snorts at him. “I don’t have any great Christmas memories.  I always managed to end up back at St. Agnes for the holidays.  And trust me, you don’t want ‘Smells Like St. Agnes’.”

“Even after you left?” he asks.  Because he knows she had an entirely different life apart from that.  She had Miles at one point.

“It was for family,” she shrugs at him. “I didn’t have one, and I never wanted to get too close.  I do now,” she says, frowning and shoving the candle back onto the shelf.

“I’m sorry,” he says, honest.  “What do you think Christmas should smell like?”

“Did you like Christmas?”

“I did,” he nods, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Until about the age of nine.  Do they have one that smells like cheap Brandy, losing money at poker, and a safehouse?”

“You’re not going to talk about it.  That’s fine,” she sniffs, taking another candle off the shelf.

She unscrews it and smells it thoughtfully, then holds it out to him.

He leans forward, then almost gags, as she starts laughing.

“What’s it called?” he asks, forcing her hand to turn the packaging towards him between giggles.

The label says ‘Winter Seduction’ and he sticks his tongue out.

“It got into my mouth, through my nose,” he says, disgusted, but smiling. “It tastes like Drakkar Noir and cranberries.”

“Is that French?”

“It’s mens cologne from the 80s.  It’s disgusting.  And yes, I’m dating myself.”

“Did you wear it?” she grins at him.

“Everyone did for five minutes,” he says, shaking his head. “Not with cranberries.”

They both jump for a moment when other shoppers push their way around them.

Their spy senses kick in, and then when it’s safe, the realization that their hands are still touching.

“Definitely not this,” he says, watching her fingers move away from under his, as she puts the lid back on and shelves it.

“What, then?” she says, looking up at the vast array of candles, like she’s looking for an exploit.

They could be here all night.

“Coming in from the cold,” he starts. “To a fire.  The tree.  Melting wax. Potato latkes.”

“Why don’t you do that, instead?”

“What?” he asks, being stirred out of his memories of family.

“Latkes.”

“You want latkes. For Christmas.”

“Yes. I do.”

“What’s that one up there?” she asks, pointing at a candle high up on the shelf.

He drags his eyes away from her and sees it.

It’s green and she’s somehow found the only green candle on the wall.

He has to stand up on his toes to reach for it.

“Do you need some help?”

The helpful sales person appears when he needs it least, of course.  Thanks.

“Nope,” he says, straining, tipping it towards him. “I’ve got it.”

The woman smiles awkwardly and walks away from their little scene.

“Here,” he says, handing it to Daisy.

She looks at the label and opens it, breathes it in.

“It smells like a fire and Christmas trees.”

Her hand holds it up to him and he leans over it, then turns the container so he can see the label.

‘Home For The Holidays.’

“Just missing the latkes,” she tells him.

 

###

 

He doesn’t make the latkes.

He makes the Christmas dinner with all the rosemary and the French cheese and nobody complains.

And it _is_ awkward. At first.

But by the end of the night, there is some holiday cheer.  There are British carols being sung even now, drunkenly.

Cheerful enough that he is looking to find her, after too much wine and good brandy.

He finds her trying to convince May how to read cards, and he literally hears the words, “Destroy Las Vegas together.”

“That’s cheating,” May says, taking a sip of her brandy and giggling at her.

She got May to giggle, even, and a smile spreads over his face.

“It’s a natural skill,” Daisy says, holding her wine glass like she’s afraid she’ll spill it. “Same as finding an exploit.”

“And you need my poker face?”

“Who doesn’t?” Daisy says, suddenly noticing Coulson walking towards them.

“This guy promised me latkes!” she tells her.

“Did he?” May asks, looking up at Coulson with a raised eyebrow.

“Yup,” he shrugs.

“Guess that’s my cue,” May says, getting up from the couch, letting Coulson give her a hand.

“Why?” Daisy calls after her.  “What about our Vegas plan?”

“Tell me more after the latkes,” May says, laughing in a low voice.

He eases down onto the couch next to her.

“Does she think we’re sleeping together?” Daisy announces, like she’s appalled. “That was her evil laugh.”

“It’s not a thing I really share,” he explains.

“But that’s soooo unfair,” she says, taking a sip out of her glass, then setting it down, a little too hard.

“We are NOT. Sleeping together,” she gestures at him, blinks slowly a few times, like it’s still sinking in.

“No, we are not,” he says, looking down at his hand swirling his brandy glass.

“Then why are you even here right now?”

“Because,” he says, starting to laugh. “I was going to promise to make you latkes for breakfast.”

“It’s not funny,” she says, as he starts to laugh harder. “Phil.”

She shoves at his shoulder, and he turns to her, smiling.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing her hand carefully, holding her gaze. “You’re drunk.  Be careful.”

“So are you,” she says, watching his fingers gently caressing hers.

“Right,” he agrees, setting his drink down. “And, I love you.”

“How drunk are you?” she says, pulling her hand out of his.

“I’m in love with you.  This is not the greatest moment, but, we’ve had a lot of great moments, and I never said anything.”

She’s looking over his face carefully, amused, like she’s not sure what to make of this.

“Like when I saved your ass from certain death,” she says, turning away from him to take another sip from her wine glass.

“Yes, like then,” he says, sliding his arm behind her on the couch.

“This seemed kind of normal by comparison.”

She sets the glass back down and turns back to look at him, not seeming to mind that he’s much closer to her now.

“This is what normal people do?” she asks, pressing the tip of her index against his chin, drawing her finger along the side, like it something she’s wanted and allowed to do now.

The right words don’t come to mind, but he knows he wants to kiss her more than anything he’s wanted in a long, long time.

“Yeah, we’re so normal,” she says, her eyes flickering up to meet his gaze.

Just before she presses her mouth to his.


End file.
